III.
Rare odors of the weed and fern, Dry whisp'rings of dim leaves that turn, A sound of hidden waters lone Frothed bubbling down the streaming stone, And now a wood-dove's plaintive moan Drift from the bushy burne.
Rare odors of the weed and fern, Dry whisp'rings of dim leaves that turn, A sound of hidden waters lone Frothed bubbling down the streaming stone, And now a wood-dove's plaintive moan Drift from the bushy burne.